


but first, we'll fall in love

by violentdarlings



Series: Entrapment Boning [1]
Category: Entrapment (1999)
Genre: Catherine Zeta-Jones - Freeform, Entrapment, F/M, I think I'm obsessed with this pairing, Insecurity, Older Man/Younger Woman, Oral Sex, Sean Connery - Freeform, Sex, Underloved Fandom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-30
Updated: 2014-05-30
Packaged: 2018-01-27 15:12:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1715096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violentdarlings/pseuds/violentdarlings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gin isn’t a virgin. But compared to Mac, she’s inexperienced. Luckily, he likes that. Or: the first time Mac and Gin get it on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	but first, we'll fall in love

They jump the train between platforms and hike through a few minutes of wilderness before arriving back in the slums. “Where now?” Gin asks him, and he regards her with faux-surprise, leaning back against the dirty wall of the alleyway they’ve chosen to conceal themselves in.

“You’re asking me? I thought you were the one with the plan,” he rumbles, jacket discarded (folded neatly over one arm) and shirtsleeves rolled up. She rolls her eyes at him.

“The plan is a long term goal. I mean now. Right this very minute. This very second.”

“So precise,” he deadpans.

“I think we should get the hell out of here,” she continues as though he hadn’t said anything.

“The slums, or Asia in general?”

“Asia in general,” she confirms. “And you’re the one with the expertise in flying beneath the radar.”

“So to speak,” he retorts, arching an eyebrow for emphasis. “Very well. Let’s return home.”

“Home?” she asks, as though he’s lost his mind. “You’re crazy.”

“Hardly,” he replies, thickening his accent purposefully just to watch her squirm. “I haven’t collected -”

“Stole!”

“ _Collected_ all that art just to go on the lam. And as persuasive as your charms may be, my dear, they are not enough to make me forget a lifetime’s work.”

“Quite right, too,” she responds, squeezing his hand. He’s forgotten when he picked hers up, or maybe she grabbed his. But her expression darkens as another thought occurs to her. “Thibadeaux knows where your castle is,” she reminds him.

“Precisely. Why wouldn’t I return? It is my home, after all. And I very much doubt the FBI and Mr Cruz consider us on speaking terms, after you held a gun to my head.”

“Which was your idea!”

“Which was my idea,” he agrees amiably. “We’re hiding in plain sight, dear one. And if Agent Thibadeaux does come to call - well, I have many hiding places. It’s not a castle for nothing.”

“And how exactly are we getting back to the UK?” she asks.

“Separately, unfortunately,” he tells her, secretly enjoying how her brow crinkles in displeasure.

“Mac…”

“Now, now, none of that,” he says, going so far as to wrap one arm around her. She nestles into his side, her warmth slipping into him, and involuntarily he shudders. He wonders exactly what she’d think if she knew how much she affected him. Probably tease him mercilessly, no doubt. “We’ll get home, and then we’ll see.”

“I don’t like it,” she objects, but she’s not arguing. What he’s always liked about her is how she sees things clearly, but she’ll still give him a hard bloody time about it. He likes that, too.

“First we try, then we trust,” he reminds her, and she pouts beautifully.

“Coming from the man who broke Rule Number One not an hour ago.”

“Hush,” he says, and she glowers before obeying. “Very well. This is the plan.”

_xx_

And, well, he could detail the two jets that took him home, or the instructions he gave to Gin, but why waste time?

Stepping into his beloved home once more, he breathes a little easier. Gin is due to arrive in about eighteen hours, which should give him enough time to think. Granted, he’s done a lot of thinking on the planes, thinking that led to wondering which led to harsh self-analysis and consequent brooding. Adrenaline and kinship, he feels, could have led to her leaping into his arms and kissing him breathless. (And hasn’t it been a very long time, since he was kissed until he couldn’t breathe?) Not any true, deep emotion; he is hesitant to mention love even in the privacy of his own brain.

But. Eighteen hours. Eighteen hours is sufficient to shower, sleep, eat, maybe stare at himself in the mirror and wish for the body he’d had in his thirties. And perhaps Gin won’t come at all. She’ll take her one billion and her plan for another job and -

“Whisky?” At the familiar sound of her voice he turns, to find her perched on the table with a tumbler in one hand and another beside her. He finds himself smiling, the expression creeping over his face without permission.

“How did you…”

“Mac,” she informs him, a smile breaking over her lovely features. “A girl has to have some secrets.”

“And no one saw you?” he demands, instinctively concerned for her safety. (And his, a little. He is harbouring a fugitive, after all.)

“Not a soul,” she promises, and it’s enough to make him drop his suitcases and stride towards her, stopping an arms length away. She won’t want a kiss. Not really. She’s probably here to tell him she’s here to say goodbye.

But that thought is swept when she slides off the table and wraps her arms around him, snuggling her face into his neck and sighing contentedly. “I missed you,” she murmurs, and his heart jumps a little in his chest; the beginnings of angina, he tells himself, and nothing more.

“And I… well. It’s good to see you.” It’s not enough but she beams regardless.

“You probably want a shower,” she says. “Planes always make me feel dirty. Go on up, and I’ll make you something to eat. Are you hungry?” she asks, already heading for the kitchen, and he opens and closes his mouth a few times, with absolutely no idea what to say. Sixty years a bachelor, and without warning his world has plunged into domesticity.

He contemplates this while he showers and brushes his teeth. Clad only in a towel, he wanders into his bedroom, pausing before the mirror and takes stock of what he sees. Dark eyebrows set over penetrating eyes, beard and moustache, lips a hard line. And lower, down to his chest and stomach (still reasonably toned thanks to his unusual lifestyle) - and that’s where he stops himself. Preening in the mirror like a teenager while a beautiful woman is downstairs, he scolds himself. He dresses, and heads downstairs.

“Gin?” he calls, finding the kitchen empty, heading into the room where they planned and practised the mask job. “What on earth are you -”

She almost knocks him flat when she barrels into him, throwing her arms around him and pressing her lips to his jaw. “I’m sorry,” she says breathlessly, fingers at the buttons of his shirt. “I was going to make you something, but I thought of something better. You don’t mind, do you?”

“Mind?” he asks, and after weeks of holding back it is such a relief to hold her tightly. “Not in the least.” All thought of her leaving is quashed when she lifts her face and he kisses her, hungry for the sweetness of her mouth. It’s been years (more than he cares to think of) but oh, he remembers the steps to the dance.

“Take me to bed,” she says when they break for air. He frowns down at her, all his doubts resettling on his shoulders.

“Gin…”

“If you tell me this is a bad idea, I will beat you with a suitcase again,” she threatens, and the memory brings a wry smile to his lips. “Just because I’m younger than you doesn’t mean I’m a child.”

“I know that!” he replies, stung.

“Then what?”

“I’m afraid!” he bursts out, and would give not just the one, but all of the eight billion to take it back. “For the love of God, Gin.”

“You’re afraid,” she echoes. “Of what?” He shrugs, making a flustered noise low in his throat.

“Of needing you,” he tells his shoes. “Of coming to depend on you, and then losing you. For Christ’s sake, I’m thirty years older than you. At least. You can’t expect this to last.”

“Maybe it will, maybe it won’t,” she says softly, and the compassion in her voice makes him want to find a hole and crawl into it. “But I’d like to try.”

“Gin…”

“I want you, Mac,” she says against his lips. “Please take me to bed.”

And God help him, he does.

 

_xx_

 

“You’ve been holding out on me,” she accuses, eyeing the art in his bedroom with a combination of desire and respect.

“My apologies,” he says, removing his suit jacket and hanging it over a chair. “I would have granted you access to my bedroom earlier, had I known you were only interested in the art.”

“Ha ha,” she says sourly, but she brightens quickly. “Hey, can I move in here with you?” In the face of her enthusiasm, all he can do is give in.

“You’re beautiful,” he says helplessly. She flushes with pleasure and leans up to kiss him lightly on the lips.

“And you’re brilliant,” she replies. “We’re going to rule the world. We’ll be the best there ever was.”

“You don’t need me to be the best there ever was,” he says. “You could do that on your own.”

“Well, maybe I don’t want to,” she retorts, perching on a chair, and cranes her neck at him looming over her. “Maybe I’m fucking tired of being alone.”

“There are plenty of young thieves about,” he reminds her, more to play devil’s advocate than out of any true desire to discourage her. “You could work with one of them.”

“I could,” she contemplates. “But I want you.”

“Because I’m good?”

“Because I want to fuck you into that extremely comfortable mattress,” she replies, and really, he can’t argue with that.

“Then come here,” he says, sitting on the edge of his bed. Obediently (for a change), she sits beside him. “Not what I meant,” he says, and taps his thigh. She grins, wicked and wild, and sits on his lap, her legs falling to either side of him as she stares into his face. “Kiss me, then,” he commands. “Kiss me like you want to fuck me.”

Her smile is blinding. “I was hoping you’d say that,” she murmurs, her nose brushing his, close enough to share one another’s air. And her lips drown out any further thought, her mouth insistent and tasting of his whisky, the scent of his home on her hair. It’s intoxicating, familiarity mixed with entirely unfamiliar territory, and for the first time in what feels like an age, he stops the ceaseless analysis he can’t seem to turn off.

Gin kisses like she hasn’t had much practise at it, but far from it being a turn off, he finds it extremely attractive. The thought of being her master at something is a combination of heartening and sensual, a sort of validation that warms him through. But she is enthusiastic and extremely responsive, her skin warm under his fingertips as he slides a hand down her arm, presses his palm to the curve of her breast. “How many lovers have you had, Gin?” he asks, lips skating over the delicate skin of her throat. “Come now, dear, don’t be shy.”

“Three,” she tells him hoarsely, and he feels himself throb inside his trousers. She is purer than he could have imagined, her flashing eyes and exquisite face a façade that even he has fallen for once or twice. “Is that a bad thing?”

“Not at all,” he says, stripping her of her loose shirt and deftly undoing her bra with one hand. He throws it to the floor and fills his hands with her breasts, kneading gently, spurred on by the noise she makes deep in her throat. He finds her lips again, distracted by the redness of her mouth and the blackness of her eyes. “Beautiful thing,” he murmurs into her throat, lavishing words on her, lavishing touch. She needs affection, needs warmth, as much as he needs to give it. It’s as though he’s been in the desert, and she’s been in the desert, and they’ve both found an oasis.

She shimmies out of her leggings and underwear, and his arms are full of lovely, nude woman, shivering in the cool winter air. She slips under the heavy blankets and peers up at him. “Come here,” she invites, and instinctively he unbuttons his shirt, drops it to the floor. Next are his trousers, and clad only in his boxers he climbs in quickly beside her, pulling the sheets to his chin.

“You’re warm,” she says, and he dips one hand down, down, between her legs, brushing the silk of her inner thigh.

“So are you,” he points out, and moves his hand to find the softness of her pubic hair. He runs his fingers through the curl of it, drops a little lower to encounter wetness against his fingertips. “You want this,” he marvels. “You want me.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Gin asks. “You’re brilliant. You make me laugh. And I think you’re sexy.”

“Likewise,” he replies, kissing his way down to tuck her legs over his shoulders. She looks down in mild alarm.

“You don’t have to do that,” she says, biting her lip.

“I want to.” And he does. There’s nothing sexier than a woman coming apart on his tongue, her legs twining around him, her hips thrusting hard against his face.

“No one’s ever done that for me before,” she says softly, and he lowers his head to taste the silky flesh on display before him.

“I’m honoured,” he murmurs, and for a while there is no more talking save for her ragged, gasping breaths. Gin moans his name when she comes, and he’s never enjoyed the sound of his nickname more. She bucks and whimpers and he holds her, keeps her secure in his embrace until her heartbeat slows and she stops shaking against him.

“What… how did you…” Her voice is breathy and broken-off. “I’ve never…”

“You’ve never climaxed?” he asks, struggling to keep his incredulity from his voice. “Not once?”

“On my own, sure,” she says, pink edging over her cheekbones. “But with someone else? Never. And never from… that.”

“From what?” he asks lightly, and she glares.

“From having my cunt licked,” she bites out, and he finds himself chuckling.

“That’s one way of putting it.” He likes her calm vulgarity, at cross-purposes with her smooth voice. And really, he’d be happy for the evening to end there. For them to fall asleep curled up together like puppies, but out of nowhere Gin’s produced a condom and it’s all happening too fast.

“Let’s get you out of these,” she commands, and obligingly he lifts his hips and wriggles out of his underwear. He’s hard, and why wouldn’t he be; he’s in bed with a beautiful woman who just came all over his face. But Gin’s staring as though she expected something else, and he crosses his arms over his chest (ignoring the urge to cover other bits instead).

“Is something the matter?” he inquires tartly, and Gin shakes her head, apparently mesmerised.

“No, it’s just that… you’re kind of big,” she mumbles, and now he’s blushing for a different reason. It’s not the first time someone’s made that claim about his dick, but it’s entirely different coming from Gin.

“It’ll fit,” he replies with his usual sarcasm. “I assure you.”

“Screw you,” she says, smacking him hard on the arm as she rolls the condom on.

“Indeed,” he retorts benignly, shivering a little at the touch of her palm on him. “Come here,” and she’s in his arms again, kissing him as though her life depends on it. She pulls him on top of her and hooks her ankles together behind his back, pressing him inside of her like he has no choice in the matter. And the sensation is unbelievable, unbearably good and his hips move of their own accord and the way she arches and surrenders under his touch is like coming home.

He wakes the next morning to the scent of hot chocolate and toast and scrambled eggs, to the odd bang and clatter and muffled curse in the kitchen, and to his body pleasantly sore in a way it hasn’t been for a long time. Last night’s shirt is missing, apparently appropriated as an apron/dressing gown, and he comes downstairs in a robe, because why the hell not? Long into the darkness, after their breathing had steadied and heartbeats slowed, they had talked, spoken of pasts and futures, but not of the present.

“You’re up,” is all she says, dressed in his shirt and a pair of his socks all the way up to her knees. “A good thing, too. We’ve got work to do, and breakfast is ready.”

“You mean the job,” he says, a sinking feeling in his chest. “Back to business so soon?”

“Of course,” she says, eyes narrowing. “Who says it has to be an all or nothing thing? We’ll work in the morning, have lunch, shag all afternoon, have dinner, shag some more. Trust me. It’ll be fun.”

“I do trust you,” he hears himself saying, foolishly because between them trust is tantamount to love.

“And I trust you,” she replies, setting a plate and a mug down in front of him. “Now shut up. You know I’m not a morning person.” Yes, he did know.

“No one forced you to get up and make breakfast,” he mocks gently, and she snorts. “So ladylike.”

“If I wanted a decent breakfast, I had to,” she snipes back, completely ignoring his other comment. “I’ve seen what you think passes for cooking. I wouldn’t feed it to the Loch Ness monster.”

“Oh, here we go. And by the way, I’ve managed perfectly well for the last sixty years on the strength of my cooking skills. I haven’t died of food poisoning yet.”

“I consider it a matter of time -”

The kitchen is messy and his bedroom is strewn with clothes; he hasn’t unpacked his suitcase. He’s usually pedantic about tidiness, but right now he couldn’t give a damn about the wrinkles forming in his favourite suits. Gin sits beside him even though there is plenty of room elsewhere, her thigh nudging his, occasionally elbowing him in the side.

There has always been beauty in his home, but for the first time, there is also peace. And despite his girlfriend being an international fugitive, Mac thinks he can live with that.


End file.
